


Memory

by days4daisy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ghost Sex, M/M, Poetic nonsense, Season/Series 03, Show Typical Cannibalism and Body Horror, The Author Should Regret This More Than She Does, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Will you come to me?" Hannibal asks.</p>
<p>The question draws a tilted head. "You own me," the ghost says. "If you desire me, I'm yours."</p>
<p>Hannibal can't deny the appeal. He wants the memory to come when called. Just as he wants the other pieces in motion. Bedelia, at his side. Will, drawing near. Those left behind, circling. He is the conductor of his own symphony. The Shakespeare of every scene. </p>
<p>--<br/>Spoilers for Hannibal Season 3, Episodes 1 - 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, Mr. Dimmond. You linger for me too ;_;

A funny thing, memory.

It is a kaleidoscope. The columns of a balcony, the partial view of a traitor. Months, like seconds. Months, like lifetimes.

Memory defies words, a voiceless familiarity. Hannibal is the voyeur. He finds himself silent. 

A partnership, a friendship, a smile, and a parting. Now, Will Graham is in Italy. A part of the art, messy and interesting within the culture of the old world.

Hannibal is mute, so the other speaks. "Is it him?" A world of implication in three words. Hannibal expects no less from a poet. Particularly one of his own design.

The question requires no response. Mr. Dimmond is Hannibal, and Hannibal is him. 

Anthony's eyes narrow, predatory. Will Graham sits unaware, the chaotic center of a once tidy world.

"Who's the girl?" Anthony asks.

"He is alone." But Hannibal knows better. 

As does his expertly constructed lone traveler. "Your mind is home to any number of ghosts. Surely, your favorite can have his one."

Hannibal raises a brow. On the contrary, his memory is a comfortable place. An open field uncluttered by skeletons. 

Hannibal welcomes few. The long buried, the first. And, on occasion, a face that lingers. No rhyme or reason. Memory is a strange beast.

Anthony smirks at his thoughts. "Oh, Dr. Fell," he says. "Your flattery is exquisite."

***

"You know I am not Dr. Fell. But you continue to use that name."

"You continue to have me use it," the specter corrects. 

It is no wonder Mr. Dimmond has appeared. His arm is the meat awaiting preparation on Hannibal's cutting board.

Anthony circles the kitchen island. He looks at his own hand, gaze lit with fascination.

His stare becomes a touch. Fingers laced through severed fingers. There is no squeeze of reciprocation. Just dead, stiff bones. Quite uninteresting, this arm.

Anthony pulls his hand back and moves to stand beside Hannibal. Shoulder to shoulder. His eyes linger on this final piece of his body.

"You are disappointed by it," Hannibal observes.

"It was my writing hand," Anthony murmurs. "You have every right to mock, doctor. I earned no fame during my life. I was a traveling scribe, a pretender."

"You loved words, as I do."

Anthony chuckles, a bitter ground. "I sought enlightenment in poetry. Years of anger, of toil, to tie words in a perfect bow. What a ridiculous ambition."

"Did you succeed?"

"Once or twice." A smile. "Isn't it funny, Dr. Fell?"

"Still, this false name."

Anthony's brow quirks. "Would you rather I use the first name you gave me? Also a lie, remember."

Hannibal sighs. "Call me Hannibal," he says.

This concession is greeted with a grin. "Are we friends now?"

"Dr. Lecter, then." Hannibal will not answer the rest.

Anthony does not press for more. "You like when I speak of poetry," he notes.

Hannibal nods. "I enjoy the artist's mind."

This makes Anthony laugh. "Ah, yes. You're also an artist. Aren't you, Dr. Lecter?"

Hannibal does not respond. The answer is 'yes,' as the specter already knows. 

Hannibal is beginning to lose interest. Curiosity is fleeting, like much in this life. Amusements sit like candles before curled lips.

"You have not added Will Graham to your palace," Anthony observes.

"Will Graham is not of the past." Of the private thoughts the ghost has heard, this is the most precious.

Anthony smiles, but he does not tease. Hannibal designed him this way. His lures, amplified. His deficits, severed like the meat on his cutting board.

Anthony sets his chest to Hannibal's back. His hands curl around the sleeves bunched inside Hannibal's elbows. They move down bare arms. Left fingers lace with Hannibal's. Right join his grip around the hilt of the carving knife.

"Be honest," Anthony murmurs. "Will you enjoy my taste?"

Hannibal glances back. "Would you like me to?"

"You have a sophisticated palate, as your...wife...once attested." Anthony turns his head, smile to Hannibal's ear. "You have sampled many, doctor. I'd like to stand out."

"Your vanity is not becoming of your trade," Hannibal says.

Anthony snorts. "Your vanity is quite becoming of yours." He plucks Hannibal's earlobe with his teeth, a hanging fruit.

"Would you like to do the honors?" Hannibal asks. He eases his control, allowing the ghost free reign of the knife. 

Anthony's chin rests on Hannibal's shoulder. It is a burden almost heavy enough to be real.

Hannibal expects a slow slice. An uncertain, squeamish carve.

The blade clanks against the cutting board. A hard, sudden crack. Hand jumps from wrist. Bone severed in a clean chop.

Hannibal turns, surprised.

The specter glares at the broken remains. "Good riddance," he says.

***

"How did your sister taste?" 

Hannibal's dripping hands hover, caked in soap. 

He weighs the consequences of thrusting in after her. Would Bedelia fight, he wonders? Or would she remain still, willingly choking on her own death?

But Hannibal will not act now. It is too soon for such a measure. His table requires her company. 

Hannibal rises, scrubbing soaped hands on his pants. It is his only sign of frustration, to sully his own appearance. He leaves Bedelia to bathe, returning to his bedroom and locking the door.

He sheds his shirt and pants. In his underwear, he extends himself on the mattress, propped against a wall of pillows. 

Hannibal listens. Pen on paper. Meaningless scribbles.

Hannibal acknowledges the specter seated at his desk. His shirt is open, his pants draped over the back of the chair. A spiral notebook is open on the desk. 

His pen is abandoned in favor of a glass. "We made our acquaintance over Brut, Dr. Lecter. Now, you've traded my champagne for red wine. More romantic, perhaps?"

"I'm afraid you'll become quite familiar with my tastes," Hannibal replies. "Chianti. More robust. I enjoy its layers." 

"You like your wine like your men, then?" The ghost is in the mood for play. 

Hannibal shirked his flirtation during their brief time together. To Hannibal, it was a passing fancy. A tedious game, lust for something so banal. 

And yet, here is his specter, narrowed eyes and a willing smirk. "Do you fantasize about your friend?" Anthony asks.

Hannibal shakes his head. There are two places he will not go. Home, and here - a feeling Bedelia has called love. Hannibal has not yet disputed her assessment. He isn't sure he can. 

"What are you writing?" Hannibal asks.

Anthony snorts. "I am your muse," he mutters. "I write what you've written for me."

Hannibal sets hands in his lap. "You write of passion," he decides. "You favor the earth above riches. Land and sky. And between them, flesh. You are enamored with the tactile, Mr. Dimmond. You love with your senses."

Anthony lifts his glass in a casual toast. "Cheers, Dr. Lecter," he says "We're one in the same." His glass is drained in two quick gulps. A dull pink colors his cheeks.

"Will you come to me?" Hannibal asks.

The question draws a tilted head. "You own me," the ghost says. "If you desire me, I'm yours."

Hannibal can't deny the appeal. He wants the memory to come when called. Just as he wants the other pieces in motion. Bedelia, at his side. Will, drawing near. Those left behind, circling. He is the conductor of his own symphony. The Shakespeare of every scene. 

Anthony sets down his empty glass and crosses to stand at his bedside. He sheds his shirt without instruction. His boxers tent at the front. Anatomically correct, then.

"You saw fit to remove it," Anthony mutters. "For good reason, I assume."

"It was your downfall, wasn't it?" Hannibal offers a shrug. "One's heart cannot be broken with his manhood still intact."

Anthony chuckles. "Why do you need a poet, Hannibal? You're dreary enough as you are."

Hannibal considers his first name in the voice of the deceased. It is a pleasing sound. Intimate and vengeful. 

Hannibal sits up just enough to slide his underwear down his legs. In his nightstand is a bottle of lubricant. He places it on his belly.

Anthony pushes his own boxers down. He is still familiar to Hannibal. An attractive-enough body. But beneath the skin, he was beautiful. The perfect bleeding heart. 

"You were a fitting tribute," Hannibal says.

"I suppose," Anthony muses. "But the real question is... How did I taste?"

Hannibal's mouth twitches amusement."Sadly, the meal was sullied by impulse. The fault lies with Miss du Maurier, technically."

"Pity," Anthony says. "I'd hoped to leave a more lasting impression."

"There's still time for that."

Anthony smirks. "Is there?" he wonders. "What flavor shall you assign to your ghost, Dr. Lecter?"

Hannibal cocks his head. "You called me Hannibal once," he says. "If you agree to continue, you may proceed."

The real thing would balk, surely. But this fabrication only smiles wider. It obeys, because its master beckons. Imagination always kneels to its creator.

Anthony straddles his thighs and takes the lubricant. He squeezes and spreads the oil up his fingers.

Hannibal strikes his hand before it can reach him. "I am not yours to touch," he says.

Anthony chuckles. "But I am yours to twist as you please." Hannibal does not argue. "Is that why you killed me? Your need for control?"

"You were the victim of bad timing," Hannibal says. He grazes the specter's cheek with his hand. "Exposure was a risk too great."

Anthony nuzzles into Hannibal's palm. Hannibal traces patient fingers across the bridge of his nose.

"You've spent a lifetime avoiding exposure," Anthony argues. "I posed no threat to your freedom."

Hannibal's fingers continue, sweeping through the cleft between nose and mouth. He plucks Anthony's bottom lip. It peels sweetly, then springs back into place. Soft and pink, like his body beneath the skin.

"You gave your love a smile," Anthony murmurs. "But I was your heart."

Hannibal shakes his head. "You were my heart's substitute. Severed, and given freely. Bad timing, like I said."

Anthony's smile is rueful. "Time," he says. "What a stupid thing." He braces his oil-slick hand on Hannibal's shoulder. His knees stretch wider, pulled open over Hannibal's skin.

Hannibal takes the lube and slicks a hand. The clean one, he sets on Anthony's hip. The wet, he slides between his legs. The thumb smears his entrance. Anthony shifts above him with anticipation. His own oiled hand leaves glossy streaks on Hannibal's shoulder.

Hannibal eases an index finger inside. Swirls it, as if sampling. A circle massaged into the muscle ring. 

Anthony's eyelids lower, fresh heat blotting out the glow from the wine.

"You've gone mute," Hannibal observes.

"By design," Anthony agrees. "Strange. Is this silence your preference or an inability to decide on words for me? Should I..." His voice falls into a heavy breath. Hannibal's finger fills more sensitive depths. A curl, a gentle stroke.

Anthony chuckles weakly. "You've strung me tight. Is this how you picture me? Or is it your preference?"

Hannibal considers this. With one finger inside, a second strokes along the edge. The whispered promise makes his specter groan. His erection bobs, a slow jump over Hannibal's thighs.

"Both," Hannibal replies. "You spoke with experience but pursued with caution." He smiles his pity. "Perhaps this enlightenment would have served you better than poetry."

"Congratulations, Hannibal," Anthony sighs. "You've demeaned a dead man before fucking him. A high point in your illustrious history."

Hannibal hums, not proud or sorry. He adds a second finger to his first. Anthony's hips dip, a gentle thrust to meet his own penetration. His lashes flutter in an interesting way. Greased fingers clench Hannibal's shoulder.

"Should we talk about you or Will Graham?" Anthony asks. 

Hannibal spreads his fingers wider, stretching and stroking. Loosening the tight coil. It is awkward at this angle, but he can thrust deep enough. He aids himself with a hand on Anthony's stomach. Pushes down with one hand, up with the other. 

His fingers scissor deep enough to catch Anthony's voice. Hannibal learns that he is the type to squeeze his eyes shut when stimulated. Anthony drops his head, pleasure a strangled sound on his lips. 

"Are you ready?" Hannibal asks. A short nod answers him. 

He removes his hand and slicks it again, to complete a fast preparation of himself. His own fist prompts a flash of pleasure. But it is secondary to the tension-trembling thighs pushing up on him. Anthony's knees strain to position himself above Hannibal's cock. 

Hannibal holds him steady. His clean hand sets on Anthony's stomach again, guiding him down.

His tightness is a delight around Hannibal's shaft. It is a slow process, this envelopment. Anthony groans above him. A nervous flick of tongue over his lips. 

Hannibal drags a thumb across his navel. Muscle clenches beneath his touch.

"You are doing well," Hannibal says.

Anthony's laugh is higher-pitched. "This is not what I expected from you," he says. 

He eases down further, knees stretched wider. His ass is a soft weight settling on Hannibal's thighs. 

Hannibal winds his greased hand around Anthony's cock. He drags slow, like a rope pull. Anthony's insides twist beautifully.

"Did you expect pain?" Hannibal asks.

"We are not equals in your mind. You've already shown your regard for me."

"I did," Hannibal agrees, but his conclusion is not the same as Anthony's. 

Hannibal sits up from his pillow wall, mouth on Anthony's neck. He tastes the salty hint of sweat and the sweet of wine beneath. Still warm, even as a ghost. His pulse thrums cherry red under Hannibal's tongue. 

He flattens his hand on Anthony's stomach, urging him all the way down. A tight sound rumbles from Anthony's throat.

"You are a broken heart for broken men." Hannibal speaks into his neck. "What more damage can I do?"

Anthony laughs softly. His hips rise and fall again. Streaks of oil mark Hannibal's back. Fingers leave crescent moons between his shoulders. 

"You are unspeakably cruel," Anthony whispers.

Hannibal smiles. This, he agrees with.

He remains beneath Anthony's jaw, kissing and tasting. Pleasure ebbs and flows with the weight of Anthony's body. It is a dance orchestrated to perfection, this lift and descent. Little jumps and spasms, gasps in the back of Anthony's throat. He does not speak of Will or anyone. Silent, save exhales of need into Hannibal's hair. 

Hannibal bites his stubble. He catches a hint of the meal prepared for Sogliato. A smokiness. Sweet charcoal to the meat, surprising tenderness for a man so toned.

"Will you eat right through me?" Anthony's desire ruins the taunt. It is an unsteady proposition, release hovering on need-tight tendons.

Hannibal lifts his head, lips on his chin. "Blood is satisfying," he murmurs. "But wasteful."

Anthony lowers his head to kiss him. But it is brief, shattered by a hiss. Hannibal feels the unbidden shudder of his hips, and the answering wetness on his stomach. Hot streaks of pleasure, servitude signed in white script.

He turns his head to mop at his brow.

When he looks back, the ghost is gone. It is his own hand around his cock. His own semen on his belly.

Hannibal sighs. A funny thing, memory.

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com).


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